


my shirt looks so good when it's just hanging off your back

by peppermintly (soundingawkward)



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Fluff, Artist!Nick, M/M, [background] Harry Styles/Caroline Flack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soundingawkward/pseuds/peppermintly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>nick's busy looking for his lost art muse and louis works a shit job at a coffee shop. and there's cataclysmic realisations and far too many pastries that have been coerced into being bought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my shirt looks so good when it's just hanging off your back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haletastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haletastic/gifts).



> happy birthday shay baby!! i hope it's a wonderful day and this is kind of loosely based off [your prompt](http://peppermintedly.tumblr.com/post/56048470517/imagine-artist-nick-asking-a-broke-undergrad-louis). title from sex by the 1975. really really unbeta'd and messy with emotions. 
> 
> playlist that goes with fic {[listen](http://8tracks.com/nicktomlinshaw/my-shirt-looks-so-good-when-it-s-just-hanging-off-your-back-nick-louis)} {[reblog](http://peppermintedly.tumblr.com/post/65111533761/my-shirt-looks-so-good-when-its-just-hanging-off)}

**

Nick’s got hangovers, half whispered words and endless sketches of aspects of a boy he can’t quite put a face to. They’re like semi-hopeless dreams pressed into patches of his bare, sleep-warm skim, and he can’t quite grasp onto them, swearing loudly as grapples with the disappearing ideas. He’s got the image of tiny hands curling over his bicep imprinted onto the inside of his eyelids, but a drunken haze is the only memory of sharp cheekbones and thin lips. He’s chasing a muse his own mind is hiding from him.

 

(Sometimes he likes to think of it as one of those soul-mate movies. Every time he pulls himself out of the party-filled weekend, vomiting up his lost dreams and partially thought out majors, there’s new pieces of the boy. The curve of a back his fingers itch to run over again, highly detailed pieces of tattoo work, tiny wrists and tiny fingers and a smile so bright and biting it makes Nick’s stomach knot up. Maybe they’re clues; maybe if he follows them, creates a picture of the boy out on canvas, he’ll work out who it is. It feels cataclysmic, a race against time and he’s moving closer and closer to the point in time in which they’ll met – a clashing of the heavens and roaring of the wild sea as destiny occurs.

 

Worlds tumbling and crashing and colliding to the point where they must be, before rushing off a million miles in the way they should be.)

 

He buys coffee in the same café every morning – a tacky, over-stocked little thing run by beautiful underpaid boys and their angry overseers, on the way to his history of art lectures. The boy at the counter with an over enthusiastic _HELLO MY NAME IS LOUIS :)_ badge knows Nick’s order off by heart and smiles as he puts too much hazelnut syrup into Nick’s travel mug. He whistles as he works, and has far too much happiness for eight o’clock on a Monday morning, but Nick lets his fingertips linger as he hands over his change, even if it’s just to feel the buzz of Louis.

 

“Muffin, Nicky?” Louis asks with a smile that burns all the way down to the soles of Nick’s shoes, already knowing Nick’s answer.

“Don’t call me Nicky,” He replies and Louis cackles as he dumps far too much cinnamon for a hazelnut coffee on top of the froth in Nick’s travel mug.

“See you bright and early tomorrow morning Nicky,” Louis grins, handing Nick’s coffee over and his fingers are probably warmer than the mug, Nick thinks, “perhaps you’ll get a muffin then.”

 

“For the love of god, don’t call me Nicky.” Nick says as he’s humming with Louis’ energy, shutting the heavy café door behind him, leaving behind the sense of belonging and warmth, bell tinkling cheerfully.

 

Unmemorable minutes later, simply spent sipping at his coffee, Nick sits. He curls upon a hideous green couch with delusions of grandeur just outside his lecture theatre and pulls open previously blank pages of his sketch books. There’s thick, charcoal lines of a pair of ankles, small and perfect in a way Nick never realised ankles could be. Smudges of finger prints sit over the drawings, marring the how the composition sits upon the page. Flipping over, there’s rough 2B outlines of those ankles in different poses, of hands that Nick recognise as his own against the sharp angle of the ankle bones, of tiny pictures inked upon the skin.

 

There’s a triangle, a simple design that Nick’s obviously spent hours collecting details over and his eyes flick down to his sweater covered elbow. He’s just about to push up the sleeves, stare at the tattoo upon his skin he must have thought was a good idea at the time when he’s jostled. Looking up, he catches sight of people entering the lecture room and the smiling face of Pixie looking down at him.

 

“Still missing your muse?” She says, and even though it’s phrased like a question, and her voice sounds questioning, Nick knows it really isn’t.

“Let’s get this boring lecture over with, yeah?” He replies, and Pixie nods as he packs up the pieces of a puzzle he so desperately wants to slot together to find the final picture.

 

 

**

Setting up at his easel, Nick drops a couple of 6B pencils and watches for a moment as they roll away, suspiciously like his memories of the weekend and the _boy_. They stop against the heal of the art director, Caroline Flack, and she bends down to scoop up them, fingers quick like Louis’ are underneath his coffee machine. With a gentle smile she hands them back, and Nick looks up; grateful.

 

“Last day of this life model,” Caroline says, and it shouldn’t at all sound like a promise, because art directors don’t pick favourites but Nick enjoys endless conversations with her, so it doesn’t matter really. Caroline is the kind of artist everyone secretly wants to be.

“Moving onto something else then?” Nick asks, popping his pencils back down onto his desk, tucking them into place, “The theory is still on nude models, though.”

“We’re moving onto a different model; I think perhaps we’ve all got this particular female form down well,” Caroline explains, slow hand movements over the soft curves Nick’s drawn over the pages in front of him, “I think we need to look at male anatomy now. We still need a model to pose for us, so if you know anyone who needs the cash and wouldn’t mind, give them my number.”

 

“I’ll do so,” Nick smiles, and happily takes the hug Caroline throws around his shoulders. He hopes when this has all finished, this is a friendship that will last years.

“You’re the best, now I better go get our model,” Caroline says, stepping away from where Nick’s sitting and glances back at him, “try and focus on water colour – I think that’s something you need to work on. Your sketching is incredible, but we need to work on colouring skills. Watercolour is probably more your thing.”

 

The model comes out, hair intricate in a way that she probably spent hours on and she drops her robe with a practiced roll of her shoulders. She starts with a basic pose, her back turned to Nick, the curve of her back tucked up underneath her beautifully braided hair and Nick takes a soft, worked pencil to a brand new piece of watercolour paper. He sketches out details, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, and curves of her back and the flowers tucked into her hair and the way it curls. Dirtying up far too much water, he works on shades of browns and winces as the paint kisses at the paper.

 

Caroline nods when she sees it, and Nick knows her well enough to understand its high praise. It’s a mess to him – splodges of shades of browns and a very pale pink and shoulders that don’t quite fit because he’s thinking of a boy. He adds the curve of the model’s breast in, tries to differentiate it from the pieces and parts of hips and ankles and tattooed biceps, and splashes it in colour too. The brush drips colour upon the studio floor as Nick stares at his painting, and the model stretches because the twenty five minutes is up and rolls her arms in a way that’s incredibly familiar.

 

She reposes, a new angle that shows the faint line of rolls on her stomach, hunched over shoulders and hair falling over them. It’s familiar again too, and Nick thinks it’s probably going to be one of those days.

 

 

**

Nick’s already half way through his third cigarette when Aimee gets home from her late tutorial. She clatters through the apartment, keys jingling and shoes clacking against the cold wooden floors and appears on the tiny half balcony a couple of minutes later, smokes in her hand. Pushing the rickety, semi-rusted out door chair over, she sits down next to Nick, stocking covered feet up on the railing and leans over to snatch up Nick’s lighter.

 

“Marlboro?” She asks, and Nick shrugs, breathing out and watching as the smokes dissipates over the already hazy sky of the bustling, neon-lit city in front of them.

“Sometimes, he smells like them.” Nick says, and Aimee puts her first to her lips, smearing the remains of her bright purple lipstick over the filter, “Not like he smokes them, but like he’s around someone who does. The scent clinging to his clothes, a reminder of a friendship – or something.”

“I imagine, once you find this boy he’ll be nothing like you dream of.” Aimee says in a voice that’s thick, she takes another long drag of her cigarette and looks over at Nick properly, stares at him, “he won’t be your coffee shop boy, and you’ll be disappointed.”

 

They sit in silence for a little while, ends of the cigarettes glowing as the light from the sun fades away and the neon gets brighter and brighter and brighter. Nick stubs his off into the badly made ash tray he made as a joke in a pottery class that was a filler course and opens up his pack once again. He pulls out another smoke, but doesn’t light up, plays with it in his fingers, rolling it over and over.

 

“Perhaps not,” He eventually says and tucks the cigarette back into its box, “but in the meantime some great art will be created.”

 

Nick just catches Aimee’s half nod, like she somehow understands, as he makes his way back into their apartment. It’s dirty and he can see a mountain of dishes in the sink, but with the taste of Marlboro on his lips and the smell still curling at his nostrils he makes his way to the study. The piles of sketches greet him, like he’s one of their own and he gladly sinks into the swirling disarray of them, pencil at the ready. When he finally falls asleep, hours later, it’s with a curling, floppy quiff stooping down to his eyes and lead smudges on his cheek.

 

 

**

Bundled up, Nick hurries towards his favourite on-campus café, checking his watch to ensure he’s got time to stop for his morning hazelnut coffee before his lecture, even though he’s very late. He dodges around a half asleep undergrad in a lab coat and turns quickly down a corridor. The sign to it is faded and rusty, but Nick’s smiling as the bell tinkles as he opens up the heavy door to the café and sees Louis’ happiness radiating throughout the entire shop.

 

“Good morning Nicholas!” Louis sounds ridiculously chirpy, already grinding fresh coffee ready to make Nick’s hazelnut coffee, “How about a hot ham and cheese croissant, that’s a bit more hipster slash starving artist, yeah? Can’t afford a bed, but fancy French food is fine.”

“Why are you calling me Nicholas?” Nick asks as he hands over his travel mug, fingers red hot where Louis’ brush over, like sparks jumped across to him, “And alliteration doesn’t give you like, hipster points to gain hipster cred or something.”

 

“I’m trying something new, you said you didn’t like Nicky. It’s like what you should do with a nice hot croissant to start your morning,” Louis tries with a giant smile that leaves drowsy caterpillars cocooning up against Nick’s stomach walls, waiting to become butterflies, “And I work in a shit coffee shop I’ve got more hipster cred then you ever will, no matter how many four hundred dollar pre-ripped jeans you buy.”

 

For a moment, Nick just peers over the counter top and watches as Louis works, the little side step he does to make his way to the syrup jars and squirt hazelnut into Nick’s travel mug. There’s another quick side step as he adds low fat milk to the steaming jug and wipes the nozzle down. Coffee trickling into a shot glass makes a low whirring noise and whilst holding the milk jug to be steamed and heated he pushes the glass over and slots in another one. Popping the milk down when it’s done, he wipes at the nozzle once more, spritzing steam into the air of the café and pours the two shots of coffee into Nick’s travel mug. He stops to stir the coffee and hazelnut syrup together and leans back upon the bench, winking over at Nick and finally tops it off with the frothed milk.

 

“Just the hazelnut coffee Louis,” Nick says, and gives Louis a look when he goes to get a croissant out of the glass case before handing Nick’s travel mug back over.

“How am I supposed to make any money with you just buying coffees Nicholas? It’s not like I get paid much at all – and with you being stingy on me all the time, I’m going to have to stop eating or something so I can afford my tuition fees.” Louis grouses, pouting as he takes Nick’s change, poking it as if that expresses how measly the volume of money Nick’s given him.

“Fine,” Nick sighs, “give me a hot ham and cheese croissant, I haven’t had breakfast anyway because I fell asleep in the study last night and had to rush this morning.”

 

“You are my favourite customer Nicholas!” Louis grins, and plucks the biggest croissant out of the glass case, humming as he plops it straight into a microwave and jabs at the buttons, “You are a lifesaver and you should fall asleep in your study more often. Do more work, get better grades, that’s what I always say.”

“Since when have you ever said that?” Nick looks at him suspiciously and Louis shrugs, waving his hands dismissingly at Nick, “By the way you complain, I’m probably your only customer.”

“Not true,” Louis pouts, turning as the microwave beeps cheerfully at him, “I have lots of customers. Everyone loves me.”

 

“That’s why you’re always trying to coerce me to buy pastries,” Nick snorts, but he wouldn’t be surprised really. Louis probably has a couple of tonnes of friends, maybe more.

“I told you already, you’re just my favourite customer,” Louis smiles as he bags up the hot croissant, writing in big, red letters _CAUTION: HOT_ and draw a small smiley face next to a love heart, “besides, you should buy pastries. What’s a coffee without a pastry?”

“A coffee?” Nick replies, unsure if it’s a trick question and Louis barks out a short, sweet note or two of laughter.

 

“You should fuck off though, you’re late for your lecture.” Louis dully notes with an air of mischievousness like he’s _happy_ Nick’s missing his lecture. Maybe it’s because he’s spending that time with Louis instead.

“Oh, thank you,” Nick rolls his eyes as he takes the bagged croissant, heading out the door of the café and he pauses for a second, turning back around and adding, “If you need money so hard pressed, the art faculty needs a life model, they pay well if you’re really interested.”

 

“What?” Louis shouts after Nick, and he looks honestly interested, which Nick doesn’t know if Louis knows what a life model is, but for some reason he steps back into the building and balances his coffee and sketch books upon the edge of the counter top and pulls out Caroline Flack’s card.

“Just contact Caroline, she’ll tell you the details and all,” He says, and then picks up his precariously balanced items and hurries towards his lecture theatre. It isn’t until three quarters of the way through the lecture that he realises he just gave _Louis_ an opportunity to stand naked in front of him and feels very faint for a minute or six.

 

 

**

Pixie sits with her theory work on a tiny corner of the table as Nick pushes his half-eaten tuna and mayonnaise sandwich to the side as he stretches out sheets of sketches. They’re tattoos; a whole pile of them, some detailed because Nick knows them so well – spent hours with his fingers tracing over the lines, but some a rough outlines, just waiting for Nick to _remember_. Pixie stares on as Nick pours over a deer, fussing over the eyes and scribbling hastily at a heart between the antlers, frowning as it doesn’t seem right.

 

“Maybe it’s covering something else up,” She suggests, and Nick looks up, bottom lip between his teeth and a crease wriggles between his brow, before his eyes light up and he nods.

“Yeah, thank you,” He mumbles, and stares back down at the smudges of drawings and lines and carefully highlights something within the mass of the heart, “it probably is a cover up tattoo – but what?”

 

Taking a bite out of her apple, Pixie peers over because she’s certain she won’t get any of her work done now, and pushes Nick’s hand out of the way. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or rhythm to what Nick’s drawn; just a hint of something lingering underneath the heart. She picks up the sheet of paper and puts it down over on a free table next to them, pushing a half drawn cluster of shapes in what seems to be the crook of an elbow over.

 

“Focus on something else, yeah?” She says and Nick looks so perturbed she nearly puts the deer and the heart back in front of him, even though it’ll just cause a mountain of grief whilst it sits there.

“I don’t know the pattern, it’s a mess of lines and birds and words to me,” Nick sighs, putting his pencil down and stretches, rolling his shoulders and leans over to his tuna and mayonnaise sandwich to take a bite.

“Something else, yeah? Or something completely different – do theory work or on some of the life model pieces, just don’t fuss over the boy,” Pixie suggests, knows there’s something in the piles of paper Nick has surrounding him like a nest, “you’re getting a new model on Friday, finish some of the stuff on the first model yeah?”

 

“I need to know who he is.” Nick says, voice low, but he slowly packs up the sheets on tattoos, slips them carefully into a sketch book with preserving sheets between them and opens up to the model, bringing a darker pencil in to shade the curve of her back.

 

 

**

Wednesdays bring late lectures, but Nick still finds himself rocking up at the café at quarter past eight to order his hazelnut coffee from Louis. He orders in, mostly because he forgot his travel mug in his hurry and doesn’t particularly care for take away cups. Louis grins, looking through the piles of mismatched crockery for a mug to fit the saucer he has in hand.

 

“How about we try vanilla slice today, yeah?” He tries, waggling his eyebrows and pointing at the thick slice in the pastry case, but Nick shakes his head, and Louis huffs, “You’re no fun.”

“I’ll have a chocolate chip muffin if it makes you happy,” Nick sighs, pulling his wallet out to search for enough change to pay for it.

“You’re my absolute hero,” Louis replies, reaching in to pull out a muffin with a disproportionate number of chocolate chips compared to the rest of them, “rescuing me from my menial job by buying pastries so I can afford electricity.”

 

“You’re so melodramatic,” Nick rolls his eyes as he takes the muffin place on a little white plate, holds onto it as he tries to hand the change over the counter top into Louis’ little hands. They’re warm, buzzing with the energy Louis seems to radiate and it stops Nick’s heart for a long second. Its jolted back into a frenzied beating soon after, like he’s upon the operating table and the doctors restarted his life signs.

 

“I’ll bring the coffee out to you,” Louis ignores Nick’s previous statement and hurries Nick along with waves of his hands. Using his cloth, he wipes the inside of the mug out, just in case, and squirts hazelnut syrup into it as Nick carries his muffin and plate over to a small, two-seated table. Not long after, Louis is haphazardly carrying Nick’s coffee over and balancing a biscuit on the edge of the saucer.

 

“ _Louis_ ,” Nick says warningly, but Louis doesn’t even respond as he puts the mug down upon Nick’s table and sits in the seat across from him, “Maybe you’re broke because you keep giving me the largest pastries and _free_ biscuits?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louis scoffs, leaning forwards onto the table top and peering over at Nick’s sketch book, “you’re my favourite customer, remember? It’s a pleasure. Besides those were Monday’s biscuits, can’t sell them now can we?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Nick takes a sip of his coffee and smiles into as the warmth and bitter coffee and sweet hazelnut hit his tongue. Putting the mug back down, he breaks the biscuit in half and dunks each piece in the coffee and hands one over to Louis. Smiling, Louis takes it and sniffs at the coffee like he’s not sure he likes it before taking a tentative bite.

 

“That hazelnut coffee shtick you’ve got going on isn’t too bad, is it?” Louis notes, taking a bigger bite of his biscuit, “Like, sweet but coffee at the same time. Not too sweet though.”

“Why did you think I get a hazelnut coffee every morning then?” Nick asks, looking at him funnily as Louis stuffs the last of his biscuit into his mouth, “Hipster cred or something?”

“Yes, actually,” Louis says, and his cheeks go red, “I thought you were just being a hipster.” There’s a tenuous moment, where tension crackles a little in the air and then Louis’ lips spilt into a wide smile; little teeth showing and he actually throws back his head and _laughs_.

 

Louis’ laugh is like a hazelnut coffee, it’s bitter and rough on the edges, a grumbly deep sound and yet, it’s light and sweet like the hazelnut syrup. It’s magical and Nick just gawks like an idiot as the sound leaves Louis’ lips, soft and supple and his laugher slowly turns into breathing, little pants of air ghosting along. Focusing back in on Nick, Louis’ eyes drop down to Nick’s mouth, he flicks them away, looking over at the glass cabinet, but they stray back to their resting place against Nick’s mouth. And Nick _knows_ that right in that moment all Louis wants to do is kiss him.

 

 

**

At the end of the day, Aimee’s waiting for Nick out on their in-city apartment balcony, shoes off and smoke from her cigarette curling into the chilly night air. There’s goose pimples all over her bare arms, but she doesn’t look worried, her hair down for once and a smile curling up her harsh lips. Nick drags a chair over to the rickety table and sits down beside her, taking out his half smoked pack of Marlboros.

 

“Did they help?” Aimee asks, poking at the packet with the hand free of a cigarette, “did you find the boy? Or come up with more parts or pieces or ideas?”

“I could smell something that smelt like them,” Nick says and lights one up, watching as the cigarette burns, “but I couldn’t tell who it was – or even if it was me.”

“Well done,” She replies, a scoff thick in her voice and Nick thinks maybe, if this was another world or another time or something it could be just the two of them; cigarettes and shared kisses and whiskey straight out the bottle, “this might take you forever.”

 

“Forever,” Nick repeats, and the word sinks in, but it doesn’t seem to matter because he _needs_ to know, even if it takes forever, even if his whole life is just this journey, “maybe.”

“Hmm,” Aimee hums, putting her cigarette back to her lips, and for several moments she’s quiet, quiet as the world moves on without the pair of them, “do you think that anyone will love you the way you love this boy? Do you think anyone would love me the way you love the boy in the coffee shop?”

“You speak as if they’re the same person,” Nick says, leaning back to imagine he’s looking up at the stars, like London’s light doesn’t drown them out.

 

“Might as well be,” Aimee shrugs, and snuffs the last of her cigarette out, getting a new one out and lighting up with a quick sparking of her lighter, “imagine they are – your answers are right under your nose, this entire time.”

“Someone will love you properly Aims,” Nick replies, nearly knocking over the ash tray as he reaches over the table to hold her hand, “I promise.”

 

There’s just smoke twisting and winding its way up into the air, hazy in the dim light that peaks through their living room window and the sounds of tooting cars and screeching brakes echo up to them. The smoke settles thick and heavy into the back of Nick’s throat and he almost wants to cough or choke it up, but there’s something intoxicating about the point of feeling it brings. Aimee’s hand is cold underneath his, and he rubs his thumb over the top of it to try and warm her up.

 

“You got lectures tomorrow?” Aimee asks, staring at the glow of the end of her cigarette in the dark and she drops it, still smoking into the ash tray.

“Yeah, a couple.” Nick muses, watching as the smoke curls up from the ash tray and burns the insides of his nostrils as he breathes it in, “Might skip them, though.”

“Let’s go get drunk and forget about our problems for a little while.” She suggests, turning her hand around so it slips into Nick’s perfectly and squeezes tight. Nick stares down at their entwined fingers and squeezes back.

 

“Yeah okay,” He replies and snuffs his cigarette down next to Aimee’s still smoking one, “Let’s do that.”

 

**

Nick wakes bleary-headed to strong lines of charcoal smudged along a sheet of a paper, the material probably all over his face. His head is thumping and aching to the beat of some club Aimee had dragged him to three in the morning, and feels heavy like his hands upon some boy’s waist. The picture in front of him is new – some drunken memory and he stares at the lines, tries to pick the expression out from behind where his face lay. It’s _the_ boy, Nick knows it is, knows that fringe like the back of his hand, the tiny dusting of freckles high upon his cheek and –

 

It’s Louis.

 

(It can’t be.)

 

Swearing, Nick stumbles back from it, foot catching on the edge of his chair as he tries to get up and he goes down with a loud thud. Sitting on the floor and head pounding, on one comes running to see if he’s okay and Nick laughs. Laughs because he’s gone crazy, laughs because Aimee’s putting ideas into his head and laughs because there’s this painful _longing_ low in his gut.

 

“Pull yourself together Nicholas Peter Grimshaw,” Nick says into the cold air, and he holds his head as he stands up, dusting his knees off. He stumbles towards the bathroom, leaning on the walls when he can and stares at the charcoal smudged all over his face.

 

“Fuck,” He says, because wiping it off doesn’t make it any clearer, and he goes to bed with a glass of room temperature water and a paracetamol.

 

 

**

The café’s warm, and familiar and comforting and Louis smiles gently when Nick pushes the door open, hand out for Nick’s travel mug. He doesn’t go on about buying a honey log or a sandwich, just makes Nick’s coffee with a soft tune that sounds achingly familiar and holds Nick’s hand over the countertop for a minute.

 

“You okay?” He asks, and his brow creases like the charcoal smudge back home on Nick’s work desk and it’s more calming then anything, “You didn’t come in yesterday, I was ready to send a search party for you.”

“And then he moped for about three hours because he thought you’d cheated on him with another barista,” A head pokes around from what must be the bakery part, someone with massively curly hair that Nick’s seen around once or twice, “you should try an apricot Danish, they’ve just coming out the oven.”

“I just had a hangover, no barista cheating,” Nick says, smiling over at Louis even though Louis’ face is turned to the other boy and he’s making rude gestures, “and sure, why not. Louis will probably try and make me buy one anyway.”

 

“Hangover? In the middle of the week? _Scandalous._ ” Louis replies, making a ridiculous face at Nick as he pours the frothy milk into Nick’s travel mug, “you’re a right troublemaker you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Nick says, and it comes out a million times more fond then he means it to, so much so Louis blows a fake kiss over the counter at him.

“Are you two dating?” the head becomes a tall, lanky boy with a hair net nestled around his head and a name tag obviously written by Louis as it says _HARRY (ALSO HAROLD) :)))))._

 

“Look here lover boy,” Louis points a finger at Harry, “just because you’re singing the world’s praises due to your love rose glasses because you’ve just started shagging a hot, talented, amazing _teacher_ doesn’t mean you can throw petals and chocolates wherever you feel like.”

“You could throw chocolates, that’d be nice,” Nick points out, and Louis looks over at him before nodding seriously, lips pursed together.

“Throwing chocolates is good, don’t like lob them or anything, though, because that would hurt, but like gently into our hands would be cool,” Louis concedes.

 

“Will do, I’ll ask Caroline to buy some of those little, strawberry flavoured heart shaped ones she loves, I don’t know where to get them – hold on.” Harry disappears back around his corner, and reappearing a minute later with flowery oven mitts on and a tray full of apricot Danishes.

“Caroline? Like, Caroline Flack?” Nick asks as Louis uses a pair of tongs to pick up one of the biggest Danishes off the tray and bag it up in paper and write a little message upon it.

“Yeah,” Harry says dreamily, and struggles with getting the tongs away from Louis and starts putting the Danishes into the glass pastry cabinet, “do you know her?”

 

“She’s my studio art teacher,” Nick hums, and Harry almost drops the tray of Danishes, just catching it on the edge of the counter.

“Nick’s got a lecture now, don’t hold him up with your gushing Harold,” Louis orders, standing up on his tiptoes to pass the packaged Danish over, flicking Nick on the fingers roughly for encouraging Harry, “see you later.”

“Bye Louis,” Nick smiles and nods towards where Harry looks like he’s going to burst or drop his tray once more, “Bye Harry.”

 

As the door closes on him, Nick just hears Louis call Harry a ‘meddling fucker’ and almost wishes he could stay for the rest of the conversation.

 

 

**

Dumping his sketch books down upon his seat, Nick shifts his easel, lowering it at the back a little and angling it better, away from the centre circle. Once it looks alright, he makes his way over to the supply draws and pulls out sheets of watercolour paper, thick between his fingers and he clips them up studiously, using a bit of his putty eraser to soften the edges. Other students filter into the room, getting their own easels ready and Nick goes through his pencils to find the darkest he can, sharpening into the little bin by his desk.

 

Caroline comes over to pat Nick on the back, smiling down at him, “Thanks for the help,” she says, and Nick doesn’t know what she means but he nods anyway.

“Any time.” He promises, and the conversation ends just like that, for the moment, at least. Caroline steps forwards into the centre of the class, turning around slowly to get everyone’s attention and quieten them all down.

 

“Now, as I may have mentioned last week, that was the last of that model we’ll see for this semester. If you are in any need of more viewing time because you didn’t finish something, please just send me an email or something,” Caroline says, stepping back so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see all the students, “so, we’ve got a new model today. These will be quick bursts, as the model is only new and getting used to it, but I’ll go bring him out yeah?”

 

Nick focuses down upon his drawing utensils, still searching for a darker pencil, fingers searching through the piles and piles he owns and only looks up once the model’s there. He can only see the back of the person’s head, soft material curled around their shoulders and it ripples as it falls to the floor, the boy stepping out of it. Caroline positions him, turning him slight and –

 

It’s Louis.

 

_It’s Louis_.

 

(It’s a cataclysmic realisation; clashing of the heavens and roaring of the wild see and Nick _can’t_ breathe. His world is tumbling and crashing; it’s colliding to a point where it’s just _Louis_ and it feels like the world is starting up a million miles an hour.

 

Louis smiles, pink cheeks and Nick’s feel red hot too.)

 

And, Nick never knew Louis had tattoos, never seen his arms from underneath that standard work uniform and he scrabbles through his sketches and papers and holds them up, stares at he spots the deer and the heart and the mess of words and sketches in the crook of his elbow. Dropping those, he holds up the one of the triangle upon Louis’ ankle, and although it’s probably more to the right, it fits perfectly together.

 

“Fuck,” Nick says, but it’s a completely different meaning to what he’s used to. Normally, it’s the pain of clinging to memories that persist on running away, memories that linger and hide in a drunken haze, things and emotions he can’t quiet recall but can’t forget either, but now, _but now_ it’s none of that. It’s Louis’ smile and the curves of his back and Nick’s hand on his waist, of Louis laughing and his eyes flickering down to Nick’s mouth and how it’s a repeated motion, how it happens over and over again, coffee shops, bars, a room Nick recalls as Louis’ living room.

 

(He feels like laughing when it occurs to him the expression Aimee’s going to have on her face when she finds out. “You’ve been fucking the coffee boy the whole time after all,” She’ll say, and Nick’s not sure, but he thinks he’s probably mostly been loving the coffee boy.)

 

Nick feels his face growing hotter as he remembers, hotter still as Louis’ eyes find him. Louis is naked in front of the whole group, and while it’s just a body, just skin and beauty and shapes, Nick’s seen it differently to that, knows it more intimately than that. He’s seen the curve of Louis’ back in his own shirt, material pooling down over his shoulders and down around the tops of his thighs.

 

Pushing through all of his papers and sketches and notes, Nick finds the one where it’s the outlines, a messy start to putting the pieces together. And looking up, focusing on Louis’ feet first, he _puts the pieces together_.

 

 

(Louis stands awkwardly in front of Nick once the class is over and waits until Nick’s finished washing his paint brushes. Once done, he hands over a small piece of paper with numbers upon it and Nick looks up at him, confused.

 

“If you want to see me naked again, you might need that number,” Louis shrugs, turning around to leave the room, “like you couldn’t have asked for it before.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Nick says, and takes the moment that Louis pauses to stand up and face Louis, dipping down to finally kiss him.) 


End file.
